“Still, every day is a day gained,” the banker said as he dropped his mask on the Friday afternoon and sank wearily into a chair. It was closing time, and the clerks could be heard moving in the outer room, putting away books, counting the cash, locking the drawers. Another day had passed without special pressure. “Time is everything.”
Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “It would be, if it were money.”
“Well, I think that we are doing capitally—capitally so far,” said Clement.
“I am glad you are satisfied,” Arthur retorted. “We are four hundred down on the day! I can’t think, sir”—peevishly—“why you let Purslow have that seventy pounds.”
“Well, he is a very old customer,” the banker replied patiently, “and he’s hard hit—he wanted it for wages, and I fear that he’s behindhand with them. And if we withhold all help, my boy, we shall certainly precipitate a run. On Monday those bills of Badger’s fall due, and I think will be met. We shall receive eleven hundred from them. On Tuesday another bill for three hundred and fifty matures, and I think is good. If we can go on till Wednesday we shall be a little stronger to meet the crisis than we are to-day. And we can only live from day to day”—wearily. “If Pole’s bank goes”—he glanced doubtfully at the door—“I fear that Williams’s will follow. And then——”
“There will be the devil to pay!”
“Well, we must try to pay him!”
“Bravo, sir!” Clement cried. “That’s the way to talk.”
“Yes, it is no use to dwell on the dark side,” his father agreed. “All the same”—he was silent a while, reviewing the position and making calculations which he had made a hundred times before—“all the same, it would make all the difference if we had that twelve thousand pounds in reserve.”
“By Jove, yes!” Arthur exclaimed. For a moment hope animated his face. “Can you think of no way of getting it, sir?”